Salvador Dalí’s mustache existed on another plane of cognition; like omniscient cockroach antennae that allowed his brain to sense the world and regurgitate it on canvas as a dream, his perky Spanish ‘stache seemed to be more aware than us of our fundamentally inadequate perceptions of reality. It was aroused, surprised, condescending, it defied gravity, and it was electric–in fact, nobody would be surprised if it doubled as a Jacob’s Ladder. It was a pair of twisting, sculpted vines on the barren landscape of his face, representing his repressed sexuality as a lost young boy. Or if you looked at it from a different angle, it was a silhouetted portrait of…you. And sometimes, it was just there for practicality. He could paint with it, jump rope with it, write a woman’s phone number down with it, not call her back with it, and roast Smores on it. Surrealist Smores, of course.

The question is, how does a frumpy looking white guy from Indiana become an NBA legend and a member of the Basketball Hall of Fame? Some people will tell it is because Larry the Legend worked harder then anybody else. That he spent more time in the gym then the next guy.

Those people would be wrong.

I think we can all agree that the secrete to Larry Bird’s success was his mustache. Like a mirage on his upper lip, Bird’s mustache lulled his opponents to sleep. Never sure if it was really there or not his mustache always got the best of whoever was unfortunate enough to line up across from him.

It’s been a while. Ten days to be exact. I’m not going to lie, after the first six days, it was apparent the daily progress photos made Weisbarth’s follicly -challenged upper lip look like a child amongst men. It simply felt wrong. The man bringing this event to you was coming up short with the facial hair. Thankfully, after 16 days, Weisbarth has finally shown some progress… I mean, if you squint and use a lot of imagination, he’s just as ‘stachey as the rest of us, right?

Is there a mustache with more mojo on the face of this planet? I doubt it. Especially since this planet’s face doesn’t even have a mustache.A career lasting more than 30 years, 10 Platinum albums, thirty Top 40 singles, and the most purple velvet in a closet since the Rockies Mascot. (Please, don’t even try to tell me “Dinger” likes girl dinosaurs. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.) Did you know in 1984, 3.66 million babies were born in the U.S.? Later that year, the movie “Purple Rain” was released. In 1985, that number jumped to 3.76 million babies born. I’m not exactly familiar with the principles of correlation and causation, but I’m pretty sure it would tell you that those things are directly related to each other.

Prince and the (Mustache) Revolution defined what was sexy, funky, and cool in an era that we look back upon and mostly laugh at. Mainly because we’re more sober now, and overall far less curly as a culture. But how he pulled that off, we’ll never know in our lifetime. Maybe some future, alien culture will dig up his records, along with a VHS copy of Purple Rain, and be able to objectively determine what made Prince and his mustache so magical. Or maybe they’ll be incapacitated because they became instantly aroused.

If they somehow managed to circumvent Prince-inspired priapism, they’d certainly recount the history of sexy-funk-soul-R&B-rock as a Greek myth. One where James Brown’s sweat impregnated Tina Turner, and their sequin-studded son, the Godfather of Dancing in High Heels, grew up to sire a child with a swan-shaped keytar. THAT child was Prince. And the people rejoiced. The clouds parted to a lavender dawn. Animals were said to strike curious poses. Barry White descended from his cloud to bestow a gift upon the young Prince. He bellowed, deeply, into his tiny, baby ears, a sound so mysterious and powerful that a thin mustache burst from his infant lip. It was made of pure, concentrated libido, and every time a mortal woman made direct eye contact with it they’d hear the Barry White sound in their head that would make their knees tremble.

That sound would be doves crying.

Listen for yourself. Just not for more than 4 hours at a time, otherwise you may need consult a physician.

As a Giants fan, one of my earliest memories of the Padres is of Goose Gossage. I was still rocking my “Big A Auto” sponsored Little League jersey while Goose was hurling fastballs for the Padres. Along the way to Cooperstown, Gossage stopped by the Giants in ’89. He was at the end of his career, so I was more happy that I would get to watch his Western-style mustache than his two-seamer. He didn’t make it to the playoffs with the team, and, if I recall correctly, they cancelled the World Series altogether. Even before the earthquake. No need to correct me, I’ve scoured my memory. Pretty sure the season ended after the NLCS.But I digress. Today’s Stache of the Day isn’t about Rich Gossage–though it would be easily deserving.

Rod Beck joined San Francisco just two years after Gossage departed, and was the shoot-from-the-hip, scream questions later, cowboy-stached slinger of a reliever that I wished I got to see when the Padres had Goose in his prime. So here comes Beck with the talent AND the facial hair? I was in heaven. The flowing mullet and saloon-door swinging arm was just icing on the mustache after he ate too much cake.

The parallel here is that even though it was at the end of his career, Padres fans got to see Rod Beck as well. And I hope that the fans look back upon Rod as beloved and respected as I remember seeing Goose with the Giants. Nonetheless, one of the rare things I’m sure San Diego and San Francisco fans can agree upon is that Beck left us all too early.

/Wolf gets shot down by Viper.* * * * * * * * * * * *Upon further reflection, I don’t think I did proper justice to just how intimidating Dale Earnhardt’s mustache was. Take Earnhardt’s ‘stache, strap it to the afterburners of an F-14 Tomcat. Now slap some Sidewinder missiles on it, and give it a real funky, synth-driven, Escondido-in-August hot Kenny Loggins soundtrack. Intimidating? Dude, it didn’t even say goodbye to Kelly McGillis the morning after, it just left an origami NASCAR beside her pillow. Yeah, I’d say that’s an intimidating image.

Well, Viper just shot it down out at 25,000 feet. Nobody even saw him. Maybe it’s like Clark Kent’s glasses–it’s just impossible to get past the mustache in time to realize there’s a jetfighter attached to it. Oh well, your bad. While the flaming wreckage of Earnhardt’s ‘stache spiraled to the parched desert below, Viper trimmed his mustache in his cockpit reflection. Cold. Expressionless. He’s good.

Viper is the Picasso of Top Gun instructors–exploiting the personal character flaws of his students in order to lead them toward a path of redemption. And if he’s Picasso, that makes his mustache his masterful brush. It has combat experience. It’s lost men. Good men. And it’s found peace. It knew your old man. It’s also wise beyond comprehension. Notice how it abstained from the volleyball scene? Good career move.

We can only hope on those days we’re stuck on the 163/805, somewhere north of Mission Valley, that Viper’s mustache is sweeping through the clouds overhead, keeping us safe from Communists and crazy, loose-cannon pilots who call themselves Maverick (but enough about John McCain, hey-OOOH!) Viper, I hope they give you a worthy wingman when you get to heaven. If not, gimme a call. I’ll grow a mustache with you.

*(not onscreen, but it’s assumed. getting shot down by Viper is just a cruel principle of nature.)

There is no question that without his killer mustache Dale Earnhardt’s nickname would’ve been closer to “the wrinkly puppy chasing after a tennis ball in your rear view mirror”. Like a spoiler beneath his nose that kept his ego aerodynamic, ol’ #3’s ‘stache would set the pace for a generation of men who liked to drive in circles, but wanted to make sure they looked like they damn well meant business while doing it. Kids these days. A couple of bumps and they get their jumpsuits in a bunch, then they want to go throw haymakers without taking their helmets off. You know why they don’t take their helmets off? Because if their opponent saw that their upper lip looked like a baby’s ass they’d get punched even harder. If anyone dared try to kiss the bumper of his jet-black Goodwrench, Dale just pulled up next to them, stared inside, and when they looked over he’d just point to his mustache. That’s it. And he wouldn’t look where he was driving. He’d just stare into their soul, pointing at the mustache. Until they broke down.From 1975-2001, this was unofficially the cause of 39% of the crashes, 2 retirements, and a babyboom of NASCAR fans.

Also, this picture couldn’t encapsulate Earnhardt any better. I am by no means a huge NASCAR fan, but I like to think of Dale Earnhardt somewhere up in the great big asphalt oval in the sky, his car running on lightning fuel, his mustache made of thunder. That doesn’t make any sense, sure, but neither does driving around in circles. Live with it.

About Facial Hair Formal

Any schmuck can grow a beard or sport a goatee…but to wear a mustache takes a certain amount of bravado. Join us on the 29th of November for the 4rd Annual Facial Hair Formal…an event where like-minded gentlemen, and the ladies that love them, get to rub elbows with the social elite. Say no to cancer, and yes to a good time.